Sitting in a bar.
A beer with perspiration.
Its raining outside.
Hear the shuffleboard shuffle.
Intoxicated poetics.
Sober state of mind.

Stools shrouded in mystery.
Double doors leading in.
Bartender’s creations. (chemical concoctions)
Saloon of slumlords and hipsters
Open mic night.
Hippie Howls.

Don’t worry we got this under control.
Malboro reds, cowboy killers.
Don’t spend you life wishing,
Spend it living.
Better yet, spend it drinking.
Liquid courage. (men becoming beasts)

Awkward rages.
The best is coming.
Shielding secret shame in this scene.
Hidden in a pint of pilsner.
Free thinkers in a haze of hops.
Lets get drunk.

Make shift graveyards on the walls.
Honoring the dead.
Rest in peace.
Nothing less, nothing more.

Old Heidelberg.
Before my time.

The stalls scrawled with graffiti.
For a good time call.
Scratched onto the stall.
“Spread love like butter on a hot bun”
Sherlock and Watson.
Bromance.
This is a bar of friends.

What is this bar?
Drunk off this atmosphere.
Window panes with neon signs.
Disillusioned.
Concealed.
Unfinished.
The moves fast and goes right by.
Springing forward without a shadow of a doubt.
Members of the Great Unwashed.
The signs of our time.
I think we’re going to split.

Can I get another drink?
One for the road.

Don’t cut me off quite yet.

Where skin meets pole,
In low society.
Is where I thrive.
This isn’t the right choice.  
Singles hustlin.
Join me in these dollar days.
This is your light switch entrance.
Sitting at a marble bar
Loveless love, pay by the song.
Selfish fun, ***** talking on the jukebox.
Jazzin’ to the music.
Standing up on that marble stage,
Showing the world whats yours is ours.
Drunken memories lived to the fullest.
I’m out trying to discover America.
Stripped down to its rawest form.
This road is laden with fallen philosophies.
Tasting of ***** money.
Bitter.
Fully **** girls flashing. (lights)
Blow in the bathroom.
The nightlife you’ve always wanted.
Movie star lifestyle.
Dimly lit.
Have some backroom privacy.
Conversations with strangers.
This is naked in all sense of the word.
Sensual seduction.
Classical redemption.
Primal ecstasy.
Trying to make amends with myself.
This is a haggard lifestyle.
Society frowns upon us.
Shameful scandals.
Fake lovesick mannerisms
Paid for in advance.
Exposed on stage.
You’re in love with a stripper.
Kitty, Desire, Destiny, Velvet.
All the love you’ve been looking for,
For the price of admission.
Just sit back and watch the girls on stage.
This is it.
We’re searching for love.
And if we cant find love,
We’ll settle for lust and luck.
You’re well taken care of here.
Don’t you worry about a thing.
Just don’t run out of money.
Superficial lover for a pay as you go one-night stand.
Never lonely here.
Late night tonight.
In the back of the club.
Are we having déjà vu yet?
You’ve been here before.
You’ll be here tomorrow.
Just a little longer now.
Climbing up the pole to the ceiling,
Only to slam down in the splits.
Don’t worry it can only get better from here.
This is the right choice.
Bright light flashing.
You’re finally in the spotlight.
Sold out, checked out, cashed.
“Let me do all the work sweetheart.”
We must live the way we feel is right.
We’re all trying to make our way in this world.
Lets not forget each other.
Cocktails anyone?
Is this wrong?
Living in this life.
This party
that never ends.

Sleezy Santa
drinking honey flavored
Jack,
straight from the bottle.
Ruining your Childhood
one large gulp at a time.
Chasing it with
Natural Light.
Oh the weather outside is frightful.
***** snow falling on
a ***** town.
The only way that drunkard got on the roof
is through liquid courage.
That **** is slippery
and one misstep means
** ** Hospital
for Jolly ole St. Nick.
The holiday season would be thrown through a loop
with Kris Kringle stuck in a coma.
Mrs. Claus is filling the papers for sole custody of the elves.
Happy Holidays.

Let’s start from the beginning…
Serenaded by celestial scarecrows.
I’m drawing crosses on
bathroom shower curtains.
Steaming with potential, semi-permanent.
A blue Bible lies next to me.
Then again I’m surrounded on all sides
by dozens of Coke cans, laced with
stale beer.
Caution: Instant *** machine just add alcohol.
Please fill this prescription, signed with
The Cross.

I’m dancing with visions of myself.
Proverbs guiding my life.

Walking

Walking through the same patterns of their life.
Trying to find outlets of expression.
How expressive can I be in a basement?
On the hand I have a great life,
on the hand I want more.
Adam Smith curse guide me!

Not with child, thank you.

Thank you.

Dancing with the universe, a dance of time.
Don’t cry wondering gypsy.
I choose neither the mountains nor the beach.
I like them both.
Which wilderness is wild?
I will live amongst the stars, or so I hope…

This white room is making me regret
the wine.
If you could only see what I’ve done.
Weaving written words.

Lies.

All lies.

They’re all lies.
Every single one of them soldier.

Don’t you understand?
Viva!
Live!

This x-ray of my life.
Let keep it to ourselves.
Hiding these skeletons in a deck of cards.
There word were supposed to be art.
Maybe a portrait written on the walls.
Praying every night (Maybe I’m asking for too much).
Side street catholic, hidden.
Never cut in front of the buffet line.
Ears ringing, my decent.
Maybe madness is the Jester’s path to
madness.
Or maybe it’s the other way around.

I’m getting older and older.

But am I getting wiser and wiser?

Hello good sir! How are you?
Yes, it is a fine day outside today.
Looking into a mirror.
Maybe I’m hiding between words.
Hiding too much.
Why not?
Maybe it’s for the best…
Lets go!
Chase the white picket, two story.
What’s my story you ask?
It’s being written, erased, re-wrote.
Just look up the summaries.
You’ll get bored easily, figure out the ending.
I did.
I’m on top!
Paper bridges crumbling into

whiskey rivers.
Which reminds me of a story…

I’ve never been a good storyteller
Please help me.
Hear me.
Screaming through ink.
I could write about that, but…
I already did, you’ll have to find it.
Between these lines.
Maybe I’m drowsy, should have
enlisted your help.
This helps. Thank you Lord.

Cameras flashing, every day is
A new day.
Every time I see you’re eyes I dream
in romantics.
Maybe this is my new day.

Maybe.

I tend to learn lessons, the hard way.
In life we must take changes and
repay them.
I’m feeling…

The keys to our hearts
lie in the secrets unshared.
I’m a walking contradiction…
I have a lot of keys, and lies.

Let the water wash over you.
This is my hope!
Flying on the back of television signals,
blinded by daytime programming.
We’re ruining our visions.
Creativity is dying.
This is my manifesto to…
Will you read it?
Front to back (I wouldn’t).
High speed chase crashing into pen and paper.
Don’t be sorry.

What would you do?

What would you think?

Why should I care?

Anxious.

Anxious.

Anxious.

Oh…if they only knew.

Am I putting too much stock in to
Materialistic consequences?
Please put your phones on vibrate!
This is a lecture!
Change your ways while you’re this age.
What am I learning you ask?
How to…what are you learning?
I don’t have a lesson plan.

Laughable poetry.
I used to be articulate.
With a sailor mouth.
Oh yes! My vocabulary is crude.
Then again so is this poetry.
So is my life.
Classroom experience is my real world.
Put that on a resume.
Don’t write poetry. No one will read it.
That’s what you’re told.

Queens the questionmaster. (I ask a lot of questions)
Lucky you!
Let’s go back to moments.
Put our trust in technology. Ignorant.
Pouring out my feelings into empty chalices.
This is something I will not do.
Wait.
Forget what you’ve been told and read.
Please.
Thank you.
It’s all I know. I guess.

Church lights bearing down on snakeskin lies.
Collection plates.
Am I jumping around too much?
This isn’t poetry?
I’m sorry I don’t think I asked for your opinion.
I did?
Oh…Well thank you for your input.
Let’s begin
At the end.
Oh how cliché can you be.
You’re so unoriginal.
Not using punctuation correctly.
Rebellious youth.
Next you be talking about peace, love, harmony, serenity, happiness…

Hear me! (no)

Look at me, answering myself at
1am, drunken hours.
Critique this!
Peace, love, harmony, serenity, happiness.
Not in this poem.

Wait.

O.K maybe a little.

Pouring over the top of my beer stein.
Snake skin wrapped around my fingers.
I hope.
Let the right foot touch first, then
You’ll have good luck
Trust me. I’m an expert.
I’m hopeful.
Kneeling by my bedside.

Speak.

Speak now of forever or forever hold your peace.

It’s your choice.

You are responsible for your actions.

This is making me feel better.
I hope this crosses over.
I hope you’re understanding this.
Or maybe I hope you aren’t, then I can keep it to myself
You are?
Good, because its getting past my bedtime.
Growing weary of questioning.

Mankind,
Womankind,
Humankind.

Help me on this journey of life.
My solemn prayer.
I think I’m losing myself.
Maybe I am already gone.
Replaced.
I am this mirror image.

Hello.
How are you doing today?

I’m fine thank you.

This looks like nature.
Standing on the edge on the edge of a bridge
above a man made pond
surrounded by asphalt trails
trees cracking under pressure.
I walk amongst the preplanned trails.
A pseudo-wilderness.
Parked my car in a designated spot.
The deep blue sly outlined
by artificial sounds and light.
Listening to the sounds of the Earth
thru headphones.

Runners cross by…
To my left is an old Hackberry
Celtis occidentalis.
I’ve learned about nature
in textbooks.
This particular Hackberry is covered in a vine.
It’s struggling to survive against an exotic species.
Further on down my path is humankind
“beautifying” nature
with preplanned gardens
gazebos
marble benches donated by nature loving proprietors
next to sawed off stumps
these benches give me a decent place to rest.

As I continue my walk I come across
an unsightly dead Black Cherry
Prunus serotina.
Soon it will be disposed of
by a chainsaw.
Nature’s blemishes.
Please help us keep the Gardens clean.
Trash around a metal can.
Why do human ***** monuments in monuments?
Dominance over nature.

The flowers will begin to bloom soon.
This family has come to soon to take pictures.
Spring has only begun to spring.

Please teach your children to appreciate nature.

I turn back towards my car.
Signs guide me on the path to return.
The road most taken.
Of to my right is an emergency station
push for help
nature is being taken.
I pass by a stream pristine
if you do not count the five plastic bottle, crumbles of paper and shoe.
The trees above me blow in a soft breeze
which reminds me of air conditioning.
There are areas marked off for protection.
Protection from whom?
We’ve already safeguarded it in gaudy surveying tape.

Resting upon a donated bench I watch a maintenance man
raking gumballs.
Continuing down my path I think
“How long have I walked?”
Suddenly,
A golf cart coming around the corner overtakes me.
Pushing me onto the grass.
My feet sink into the muddy ground.
I’ll have to wash my shoes tonight.

Coming across native grass still smoldering
a controlled burn.
I realize
humankind has learned to perform the duties of our mother
better than she can.

I pause

lose myself for a moment
before I remember
I have things to do
and
there’s a two-hour parking limit.
On my way out I discard my trash in a dumpster
rolling my window down
to feel the breeze once more.

His hands had the strong odor of
advanced hand sanitizer.
To keep the germs away,
while having ***** thoughts.
99.99% effective.

Sitting on a couch
filled with flowers,
praying to the Almighty that
there is an Almighty.
I keep my faith close to my heart,
in more than one way.
I watch the light in the bedroom
paint the hardwood floors.
Dancing to the tune of the muted television.
The fan adds a refreshing sound to the day,
drowning out the car alarms.
I am contemplating my faith while watching
TLC's "Breaking the Faith".
I normally do not write about faith or religion.
Lord,
Please forgive me.

Circle Circle
Dot Dot
This dream of mine has been shot.
This nursery rhyme is no longer
a good time.
The lights are dimming.
The sexes are mixing,
exposed to the epidemic.
Everything is becoming a work of
spin art.
No medicine can provide a vaccine
for this lifestyle.
Circle Circle.
Dot Dot.
Endless cycles of not.

Spinning
until I get dizzy
around my cubicle.

What a view.

10% me
90% what I never thought I would be

"The current webpage is trying to open a site in
your trusted sites list."

I don't trust anyone.
So,
let's extend that pleasure to this site.

I blur all the gossip.
Catch a glimpse of the Spiderman Timmy found in the landfill.
After everytime I use it I squirt some hand sanitizer.

The wall to my right
now left
is full of
certificates,
showing how important I can be.

There goes my Sierra Club calendar.
My slice of the outside environment.
This month is a river bed,
frozen,
choked with multicolored leaves.
Smooth water pushing through
smooth rocks.
Reminding me
that I give a presentation two Wednesdays from now.

The one constant
is the over-abundance
of files...
All over.
Reminding me
that I had a deadline
and
that I shouldn't be writing poetry...

I think it's time for a walk.

The sky has darkened,
filled with clouds
a violent, jagged
black. Night has
shifted.
Thundering,
shattering across
the vast horizon.

St. Michael,
the Archangel.
Defend us in
battle.

The dream has given
way to nightmares.
Day retreats
to night.

This battle is
just another
variation of my own
jaded
reality.

I’m having a
conflict of interest.
Who will make it
out alive?

Be our protection
against the wickedness
and
snares of the Devil.

I need it now.

No shield to protect.

Dreams burned
white hot into
the back of accepting
consciousness.
Scarred from memories.

Unforgiving supernatural
spirits working
behind
the veil of what is
and what is to be.

May God rebuke him,
We humble pray.
And do thou,
O Prince of the Heavenly host,
by the power of
God.

These premonitions are growing
in the shadows of self-doubt.
Breeding self-destruction.
I must remember
better times.

If it is to be than
what can be done.
Predetermined outcomes
wait at the tipping
point between
this world
and
the gates of Hell.

Fire whipping through air
sapping life from all forms.
Red glow blinding.
Suffering ,
with a fleeting hope.

I must not forget
what past has presented.
What future holds…

Only when it is accepted that
the calloused hands of
Fate
hold the fragile strings.

Can I truly be free…

From?

****** into Hell Satan and
all the evil spirits.

Oh,
the ending is coming.

If I could only
wake up from this
haunting.
Eyes closed,
listening
to the music of life.
Watching bright light
overcome the
coal black distress.

Who prowl about
the World
seeking the ruin
of souls.

I can make it.
The time to be idle
has passed!
This battle will
turn into
all out
war.
When all one must do
is be the best person
they can be.

I can
And will.

I must.

Amen.

I love poems with no titles.
So full of mystery and intrigue,
they're like Nosferatu walking up the stairs.
Shadows in a black and white movie.
I am lying.
Here is the truth about titles,
they're very important.
They lay the yellow brick road Dorothy.
How would you get to the Wicked Witches castle?
You wouldn't.
You can't even navigate a tornado.

I am waking up and
thinking about titles and poems.
Words on paper scare me,
what truths are seeping into this wide world.
I had a dream the other night.
I was walking through a crowd,
faces I have never met.
I was told once that if you do not know the faces in your dreams
they are the ghosts watching you.
It is comforting to know
that someone is watching over me.
Big brother is always watching.

This poem is a testament to my stupidity.
In this world full of words and swords,
choose the pen.
The sky is brighter when it is being shamed.
Try it.
The clouds are just moving through life,
hoping for rain.
They have something I need and
they won't give it up.
It must be taken by force.
The time has almost come.

I forgive myself all the time.
It helps me sleep at night.
Dreaming of titles and words,
forgetting that one day,
we will all fly.
The titles we work so *******,
spending countless hours fine tuning,
they will fade.
Then again,
we will never grow wings and this poem
will have a title.

The world has forgotten about the moon,
which is fine.
Filled with holes and
long-distance relationships never work out.
The moon can do better.

Sometimes I look up into the sun and
wonder what the flames are thinking.
Imagination is a powerful tool.
An ally.
The sun never responds.
It blocks the view.
I can do better.

What happens when the dead come back to life?
Will we still watch reality TV?
Keeping up with the Corpses.
The strange will inherit the Earth.

The glare of the office's lights are blinding.
I wonder how many secrets
the wall clock can remember.

My cube neighbor and I have an argument.
I suggest that Spiderman is a terrible superhero,
he shows me his Brown Recluse bite.
I will still claim victory.

To the lady walking down N. Broadway,
pretending that she is a bird.
I get it,
I want to fly as well.
There is no will left to fight.

I will never reach my fullest potential.
That is something I will remember forever.
However,
I am hoping for the best.
A fool's errand.

Hope is something that
rich men talk about, while
flying through the clouds.
The sun is their ally.
Keeping the poor from dreaming.

My only plans for the New Year,
are sitting on my couch,
drinking beer, and
watching the walls dance.
Bubbles busting in celebration,
while I fall asleep at 12:01 AM.

Thus is the life of an adult.
Listening to the ruins of society,
waiting for the witches to burn.

Play your cards right
Put on a mask to hide
Stacked deck
I speak lies
Fluently addictive
I’m infected with the soul
***** tonk hip
Broken record stuck on repeat
Hit me.
21 bust
Dealer’s choice. Counting cards.
Gambling addiction
One last chance to win at this lifestyle.
House always wins.
All in.
Out of control.
Runnin the table for brief seconds.
It’s gone.
Laid down everything on black.
This is how I live.
Just an honest man in a gambling world.
Juggling priorities.
Impulsive. Instinctive.
Alive.
Pop the bottles,
Full throttle.
Pedal to the metal.
This ride doesn’t stop.
Commit to it.
Makin money, spending money.
Just hoping to break even.
Break the bank, crack the casino.
We learned on the streets.
How to play this game.
Betting on games we know we can’t win.
These lines will end you in bread lines.
Doing it on the soul purpose of chance.
Will you ever know this lifestyle?
Seemingly scheming.
Flipping cards to the end
Royal flush.
Trapped in casino bright lights.
Just trying to find out what its all about.
For better or worse, I’ve been changed.
Lets **** this world up,
Before it repays the favor.
You’ve gone past gone to far
In deep.
I see possibility in failure.
The best of both worlds.
Collision course.
Make a bet.
Throwin’ down the table.
Snakeeyes.

I feel my head exploding,
splitting really,
into a thousand clouds of
silver.
An uncharted breakdown
that is so very familiar.
People should be held accountable for
the actions of others.
The pressure lessens its grip on
my spinal cord.
The musical adaptation of my life
blossoms before my very eyes.
Seen through a dream catcher
that is broken with
nightmares of fallen ancestors.
Please,
forgive me for rambling.
Words are hypnotic and
let me forget about
the ringing in my head.
A thousand decibels of silence,
shattered.
They are forgotten by society.
Forced to live in gangways with cockroaches and
the pages of old leather bound books.
They leave on
a wing and
a prayer.
Bathed in dust and dirt,
they hear the barking of the pitbull
inside my head.
Brought down by the blade.
I once observed a church being boarded up,
blocking out the elements and homeless.
It was calming.
Does that make me a horrible person?
Eerily beautiful.
I wish I could go back to that moment in time,
frozen in place.
My head explodes.
Can you hear the bell tower ringing Quasimodo?
Chimes louder than a bomb,
falling through the rotted out wood.
It's for the best.
The Horseman didn't need a head.
The silence will bring me back.
Remember,
our actions now
are our actions now.
Ring the bell!

There’s danger in the night.
I’ll leave the light on.
A stormy symphony.
I will write poetry that comes to me.
Slammed into my temples.
A dream with the same theme.
One I cannot escape.

There’s danger in your sight.
I’ll leave the light on.
I’ll marry for money,
not love.
Calming my anxiety.
Leaving this Earth alone.
Celestial bodies waltzing.
Whispering contradictions.
Imagination gone awry
Aimless argumentation.

There’s danger in disillusion.
I’ll leave the light on.
Candles burning brightly.
Illuminating.
You can’t have it all.
I’m just beginning.
I hope you like it.
My hidden legacy.

There’s danger in seclusion.
I’ll leave the light on.
Founding fathers laid these remains.
Karma of our ancestors.
Ancestors to a future generation.
A revolution against
The lack of revolution
against
the thought of revolting.
Isolation is a cheap trick.

And when they come
they will say
they’ll talk of me
and of this day.

This is just the beginning.

Our Father,
Who art in Heaven.
Hear me.

I’ll leave the light on.

Click, clack
bucket hat
won't that ghost go home.
Flying around the moon,
silent in the smoke,
in a spaceship made of stone.

Voyage of the ******.
It begins with one.
The man was once a great explorer,
reduced to
the time between six and noon.

Recovery is a process that takes
lies, and
deceit, and
moon light.
Shining through window panes and
smelling of sulfur.

Coo coo achoo.
God bless you.

If the apple rises up in revolt,
what would Newton do?

The world is full of monsters and cheap drinks.
Yes,
the two go together.
Sometimes they hide behind ghosts.
Expect the unexpected to tell the truth
in jazz bars and to
use ***** needles.

Clack, click
the rumors will stick in
the adulterers mind.
Which is funny because the punchline,
wraps around the world,
like a snake crushing the Golden Goose with monstrous jaws.

The ghost struggles to shake hands while,
watching the street collect dust.

The man dies.

So,
now there are two.

Swirling and spinning,
crisp and clean.
The house will be demolished.
Brick by brick by brick by brick.
Windows don't break,
they shatter like glass.
Which makes sense over time.

What if the ghost can't go home?
Then,
there will only be two.

Coo coo bless you.
Cut off before the big finale,
***** curtains dropping
hints that,
the spaceship with be destroyed.

Death will come for the man.
The ghost will go home.
Click,
clack.
There is no bucket hat on the moon,
only the sound of trucks rumbling.
The moon,
like all cheeses,
spoils
the child and spares the rod.

Dish, dash, doom.
Hair slicked back,
the man is lowered into the grave,
looking like fire.
No tombstone reminder.
Just green grass and
mistakes made for two.

Watching in the rearview mirror as the world turns,
finally,
the man is an explorer once more.

Sitting in an abandoned lot,
listening to the screeches of
seagulls and freight trains.
I am staring at a condemned building.
Condemned to have more windows broken and
be marked with unoriginal graffiti.
YOLO and RIP TGB.
Bricks crumbling onto broken glass.
I guess you really do only live once.

Construction tape blows in the wind and
it is strangely terrifying.
This forgotten lot where
there is "absolutely no tailgaiting."
An owners car will be towed
A police car drives by and just stares.

I'm just doing my part.
Forgetting about this lot and all the events that took place here.
The asphalt hums with the highway traffic.
Click Clack goes trashcan
rustling around the fenced-in area in the back forty.
Progression marches on and
the picture fades away to ***** signage and power lines.

If there is beauty in this lot.
I have forgotten.

The caramel corn has taken on a subtle hint of hand sanitizer.
It is enough to **** all the germs.
A kernel escapes and the search party is unsuccessful.

The tile in the bathroom reminds me of other jobs.
Janitorial work,
cleaning up after others.
The tiles in my store were larger and dirtier.

I can't think,
this headache is raging a war.
Aided by my cube neighbors fan.
I snore at night and dream of helicopters.

Things usually come back around to bite you,
like a snake
or NASCAR.
America,
the Land of the Free.

I have lied so much that
it comes out as the truth.

A rusty swing set sits in the backyard,
choked by weeds and broken furniture.
The overstuffed purple couch
has seen better days.
Tonight,
it will sleep alone.

When I am feeling down I count the ceiling tiles,
getting lost at fourteen.
Fifteen is a liar.

What would happen if the stars did re-align?
Just for one day,
the cost of beer wouldn't be so high.
Then again,
the liquor store on Jefferson sells Tallies for $1.19.
Let's not be greedy.
I will buy two of them to make sure that when I sleep tonight,
it is soundly.

The phone keeps ringing with complaints.
People are more interested in their neighbors
than the fire.

Forget about this poem.
It is better if you just skim this literary travesty.
There is no substance.

This new day is failing
and it will soon be cleansed.
Forgive me Father,
for I have sinned.
Please,
watch over those I care most about.

The fire rages
throwing shadows across
the trash.
Pepsi, Coke, Malboro
Cowboy Killers.
Lightning strikes the midnight black pavement.
Please Lord,
keep us safe.
Is this how the world ends?
A puff of smoke
tainted with a subtle hint of
Budweiser.
Oh, the humanity!

The wound has grown too large.
A bullet whispering through the air,
landing in a young mans chest.
The world ends
surrounded in yellow caution tape.
Police Line:
Do Not Cross.

Here the guardians sit
on the worlds edge,
looking over at the chaos,
coated in yellow gold and
thick black smog.
Choking on past sins,
the curtain falls on this
vaudeville show.

The world doesn't end in fire
or ice,
but both.

Welcome to my dream

I found my voice.
It was in between
vivid dreams and
(voice)
tainted reality.
Dreamers dream their lives
away.
Reality is scarred,
stained,
with sullen grey clouds, filled
with all the disgusting
regrets
Waiting to unleash its hell
on the unsuspecting day.
My voice is slowly slipping away.
Have you ever had a dream?
One that you wished would
push reality aside.
Keeping you hidden.
I am waiting,
to pour myself out
to those I wish could.
Listen to my oncoming storm.
Clashes of white-hot lightning
One in a million.
I am going to play
the odds and
God willing they’ll be in
my favor.
Living in this lucid dream
of mine.
The only thing I truly own.
Here I can be
the Supreme
Being.
Life will only get better.
I know it will.
There is no need to second-guess
the decisions.
That brought us to this poem.
Where others see nothing,
I see destruction.
Crumbling and decaying
as you dance through.
A torturous waltz.
It is time for this dream to be vindicated.
Waiting to be rebuilt…
Begging for me to care…
What happens if I never wake up
from this dream?
Would it matter if I stayed here
and rotted away?
Becoming a fragmentation of
myself.
Lifted up to Heaven on a
dream.
Invading my solace
I will never forgive you.
This blantant disregard for
any emotional attachment I had with
you.
If I stayed here,
would you even notice?
Give into the easy path.
The path carved through
broken trust,
jaded love,
misplaced sense of self.
You’re selfish
And I am angry.
That my dream is ending
with you stuck inside it.
Dreamless nights turn
into an unforgiving reality.
The storm is here.
My voice is gone.

Hell hath no fury like
a stapler jammed.

In case of an emergency:
we will meet at the safe area,
we will trample those who are too slow,
push those who are weak,
and follow proper protocol.

Where is the safe area?

Use your imagination.

Can we use the elevators?

Only if you want to die.

This has been an informative meeting.
If you have any other questions,
don't ask me.

I can see the snake slithering,
hissing at my feet.
Will it bite me?
Hopefully.

I can watch the stars
form patterns,
while laying on my stomach.
The sky's reflection is best seen,
while staring at the ground.
The Earth is causing my head to swirl.

I fear the day
the snake slithers through the core,
discovering all the World's secrets.
It is always watching,
waiting,
for the right time to strike.

Once,
I fell into a well and
nearly drowned.
My father lowered in a rope to pull me out.
It slithered down the hard,
cold,
rocky side.
I never wanted to leave the well.
The water kept it's promise.
I promised to one day return.

I can hear the hissing of the snake.
Waiting for the right time to strike.
One bite and
the stars will fall to Earth.
They will scorch the prairie and
blind the poor.
We are not used to seeing hope.

I hope that you will forgive me for my lack of understanding.
The cold-blooded killers are hiding in the shadows.
Time is ticking
through the ocean.
Forgive me for being hopeful.
The sky will auction off it's wonders.

And still,
our buildings will crumble,
the blind will hear,
the deaf will see,
and I will still be here...
Listening to the snake slither through my world,
trying to catch the wind.

One day,
I'll scrub to the bite.

If you need someone to talk to,
I am not that person.
I am a liar.
I will let you fall through
space.
Colliding with ambiguous answers and
hidden agendas.
Secrets are my forte,
the tongue that becomes a serpent.
Hot fire,
blazing glory.  
I will tell the world that
we were both at fault.
You will be forgiven,
putting your faith in the wrong person.
Hands clasped in prayer,
waiting for the time to die.
Infinitely telling your secrets to the Almighty.
I am a liar.
Nothing will be forgiven.
Buried in a shallow grave,
underneath a false headstone.
Resting,
Waiting,
for my pardon.
Please,
do not give me a second glance.
You will turn me to salt.
Everyone gets hurt
when the square becomes a circle
Forget all memories of me.
Erase me from your world.
I will only tell you
what I believe.
Is that so wrong?
Why watch the world burn,
when you can start the fire?

The door won't open.
Wood that has chipped and
screams secrets.
It used to be white.
A shadow of its former self.
The **** has a tarnished reputation.
It holds a small face,
saddened by years of abuse.
The skeleton key remains in the closet.
Please,
kick the door in.
The room is less interesting.
Patterns that fade,
colors dull,
love fails.
This door is cracking,
breaking,
hiding,
all the world's secrets.
The hinges hold tight.
Swinging open,
engulfing the world in light.
All will be okay.

I can feel the spiders crawling through the bed.
Hear the car horn,
keeping me up.
If this is how the world ends,
it will be annoying.
The empty wine bottles roll around,
crushing the cockroaches like Indiana Jones.
Only,
he escaped.
The snow surrounds my car.
Helping me forget that
the world is ending soon.
Oh,
the red wine is raining down on top of the bed.
The spiders are content sleeping at my feet.
It is a truce.
I can hear the upstairs neighbors fighting again.
Heel walkers,
they stomp and thrash about.
Scaring my spider friends.
*******!
We are trying to sleep!

It has been said by many
that  
practice makes perfect.
Do not force it.
It usually comes out horribly.
Many people have told me,
"keep writing, you need to write everyday."
The problem is...
I have nothing to write.
I would rather get day drunk and
watch reality TV.
Sip on a Seven and Seven
wacth the day pass me by and
misspell words, not giving a ****.
Yes, watch is misspelled...
That's the funny part.
I won't pretend that I am an even a decent writer.
I get drunk,
**** people off,
make bad decisions,
regret those decisions,
promise myself that I will do better,
plead with the Almighty that it will
never happen again.
In the end,
I have stories to tell,
but no voice.
Start on a poem
and walk away.
Read the last chapter of a book
because I am a literary rebel.
No.
I am just lazy
and I hate surprises.
I am not a starving artist.
My waistband has expanded.
Let's be honest
I'll never be famous
and this is the longest poem
I will write in the coming week.

The television says that there is, "no signal".
I will believe it this one time,
as I doze off off on the hardwood floor.
There is a bed in the next room,
through the French doors.
However,
I can see the picture of James Dean and Natalie Wood from here.
Both of them from good families...
Tonight, I'll be a rebel.
Listen to the upstairs neighbors dog
run around
for freedom.
If you put your ear to a seashell you can hear the ocean,
if you put your ear to the hardwood floor you can hear the shadows
gaining courage.
They're waiting for the right time.
I put a towel at the bottom of the door.
It keeps out the cold air and
let's the neighbors know I want nothing to do with them.
I am withdrawn.
Destined to live on this floor,
seeing all the spots I missed sweeping today.
Dreaming of locked doors and too-early mornings.
The fan spins
singing a song of praise.
Glory,
glory,
I am saved.

I have not put pen to paper in a good while.
It is probably for the better.
The blinds hide the world.
Listening to movie trailer music,
I write and hope.

What happens when you get older?
I hate it when people say they are "young".
You're 40 years young?
No.
You're an *******.
We are dying from the moment of birth.
Don't forget that.
Pessimistic and proud.

Sometimes I sleep with the T.V. on at night.
A constant reminder that my dreams can give way to
war,
famine,
Perez Hilton.
If this is how the World ends,
life was good.

You see...
This is why I don't write anymore.
Poems that give way to inner thoughts.
How deep and depressing.
I could write more...

I won't.
Maybe.

Poems that end like highway wrecks.
Leaving you wanting
nothing,
but a refund.

Slam.

The devil is whispering
through white plaster,
pock-marked walls.
The window's eyes are watching
every movement of the
hardwood floors, sending out
dust.
A front door with four locks,
but one is broken.
A back down with four locks,
but never opened.
The devil can't get out,
the demons can't get in.
Waiting for the chance
for redemption,
riding on the back of a cockroach.
Close the French doors to the bedroom,
shut out the world,
bathed in darkness,
hidden,
secluded,
perfect
for one more day.

The makeshift congregation packed into the church.
Hands clasped in broken hallelujahs.
Consecration of this community.
Guidelines for the faithful, faithful for tonight.
At least for now we can be one.
Trascendental divinity, like a silent wind flowing through
Public servants to ourselves.
We are the Church.
Sewn in the fields of the faithful.
Strewn through life like an empty chalice.
Filled with Merlot.
Hear us Father for we have sinned.
Glory to you.
Buffet Catholics asking for salvation.
Forgiveness sandwiched between the bread and pasta salad.
Repentant.
Offering up prayers for the ******.
Quick to judgment.
With the ferocity of Charlemagne.
Partial acceptance into our open hands,
You made a valiant effort.
Sign of the cross with water blessed.
Genuflect.
Kneeling on the pews, praying for peace.
External.
Internal.
Oh! My children! God will have mercy.
Part of the flock for once
Maybe twice
A year.
Not even staying for the full length.
The faint smell of frankincense.
We offer you this gift.
Ceremonies steeped in tradition.
Rosebeads hung from the wrist of regulars.
This mass is being said in memory of…
We offer up these prayers for…
The meek will inherit the Earth.
If we leave anything.
Cynics questioning.
We’ve found hope in a paperback on a bookshelf.
Who is our shepherd?

It is far enough away to
not dream about it.
However,
I am locked in this box and
insanity is setting in.
Watching the days paint
tainted ideas all over my prison.
Hidden from humanity,
I can only hope for a dream.
It will never come back to me,
no matter how hard I try.

How may I help you sir?
I am working on my customer service.
This is my new home.
Surrounded by thoughts and hard steel.
Would you like a tour?
Do you really have to go?
Okay than.

I am like a bull in a china shop.
Crashing into the walls and causing destruction.
Laughing all the while.
No one deserves to see me.
In a pile of broken glass and shelving.
Red,
blue,
yellow,
hatred.

The box has a slit in it.
I watch a curtain,
floral print and torn,
flow outside a window.
The building is falling down.
A testament to this area.
It knows what freedom is.
If these red bricks could tell their tale.
It would put everyone to sleep.

I will sleep tonight in my box.
Wishing the world away,
hoping for the axis to re-direct.
Saving my screams for a different day.
What will tomorrow bring?
Hours,
minutes,
seconds.
A countdown to the...
Let's count backwards.

If I threw an apple into a well,
would it splash or float?
The apple will never forget.

I am a selfish poet.
I am a narcissist.
Yes,
I like to re-read my poetry.
Thinking to myself,
"Oh! You nailed it with that line!"
Then,
I won't write for months.
Don't want to give the people too much.
Keep them guessing,
wanting more.
What happens when they don't want more.
In a bright room,
I'm the dark center.
In a dark room,
I'm still the dark center.
That's the great thing about being a selfish poet.
I can always imagine being the center.

Don't read this poem.
You're not going to like it.
You're going to aren't you?
No?
Well good for you.
This isn't going to be very worthwhile.
But if you insist...
I'll tell my story.
It's your funeral.
I let myself be led by my heart
and it got crushed.
It was like beating a dead horse
with a stick
then tossing it off a
twenty-five story building.
Look out below!
Splat, on the
ice black asphalt
run over by a taxi.
This unforgiving love of mine.
This poem is horrible.
All this vague talk of love.
If I was a poet
I'd quit.
No questions asked.
Turn in my resignation letter
to you all.
Thankfully,
I am not a poet.
OK.
Let's get back on track.
Get this going once
more.
Where were we?
You put yourself out
on the fake limb.
Only to cut it down
by your own hand.
Tumbling down
down
down
down
with baby and all.
Wait,
what the hell is a baby doing up
here?
This doesn't even make sense anymore.
I've gone from bad to
worse.
Luckily,
I'm content with that.
Content with the love I
have to make due.
No sappy sonnets.
Only me.
Trying to write a love poem.

Driving
rolling over humanity
paying more attention to
my directions than
life.
Stopped at the corner,
onto
the Highway of Kings.
You're wearing khakis and a blazer,
brown loafers and a green derby cap.
Rolling your floral print luggage,
the only flowers in the area.
A knock off Louis V.
What is in that suitcase?
Your life?
Do you notice me stare?
I am looking for my right turn lane.
Forgotten tomorrow.

Living in this
cold world.
Every detail is noticed.

The birds chirp
with a hum of
highway traffic.

They fly south
in search of
better opportunities.
Carpetbaggers.

The wind brings the
sweet smell of
civilization.
Breath in.
Breath out.

Favorite sun pokes out
from behind its shadowy veil
of sulfur spewing smokestacks.

Listening to the grass
move,
groaning to keep up
the world.
An environmental Atlas.

Maintenance men out
pulling
the weeds
silently screaming for help.

The leaves don't crunch,
they let out
an apathetic sigh.
They move on
to their next life.
They've fallen
down on their luck.

Listen to the sounds
of Mother
being pushed around.

The clock rocks
tick tock
all the way to paradise.
While you look,
at old pictures of
situations you can no longer
remember.
In a flash they are
gone.
Long and
short hands
motioning that
your life is draining.
And the blackbird sings,
but only for a moment.
Knocking over the hourglass,
shattered time.
Oh, the
humanity.
Ring the gong,
sending shockwaves through
the world.
The global population's ear's
perk up,
listening,
waiting.
For the catastrophe at hand
to begin.
Monuments shatter and crumble,
the mind begins to deteriorate.
And the clock,
ticks
on
and
on.

Running through these dark halls,
being chased by bulls and
my own thoughts.
I'm more afraid of the bulls.
My thoughts are dull and focus on
rocket science and The Green Arrow.
That might be a lie.
I am no scientist.
The arrow flies through this thick air.
I am choking on the pollution of others.
Air so dense,
it makes the weeds ashamed.
They are pushed off of their pedestal.
What happens if I fall?
Left to die in this dark hall.
Crawling towards freedom,
while the hall runs away from my memories.
The door grows larger,
encompassing the wall.
The door handle is made of solid brass,
too heavy to turn.
A knocking fills the hall with thunderous applause.
Then,
all is white,
then black.
I can smell the subtle hint of perfume and
feel the wind on my face.
It's comforting to know
that this is how I will die.

Walking through the pages of an empty notebook,
the surprises are few and far between.
Listening to the honks on Market Street and
I remember when life was like back in 2009.

The room was spinning around and
liquor bottles hung from the ceiling.
The hideous growl of a thousand broken promises.
Chasing after a drunk ghost,
through a maze of street signs and snowflakes.

The night sky sends down shadow monsters,
destined to return your soul.
I refuse to accept that this is reality.
My creative spirit has fallen into discontent.
Oh Lord,
please save me from these bright lights.

I am going down 157.
Waiting for the clock to strike
any hour it pleases.
Listening to the broken trees whisper their anger.
Splintered from the weight of the crows,
they fall.
This will not end well.
The problem with every story is that there is a beginning and
an end.  

Forgive me Father for I have sinned,
my last confession was...
when the Crown Royal was still a peasant.
The victory seemed like a defeat and
the birds flew south for the winter.

Do not be afraid.

This story ends with structure, responsibility, and order.
The trees have regrown,
hiding my secrets.
My mind begins to wonder.
Everything begins to swerve.
Is this what happens
when good men do nothing?
Or when bad men fly?

Watching as the flagship spirals
out of control.
Sweet neon lights
sputtering supernova
lighting the path back home.

Where is home?

A sign of the times.

Men of the year
walking down cracked walks
sideways.
These imperfections.
Imagine the path
smooth as whiskey
and water.
The element of life.

Imagine the path cleared
by pseudo-wilderness.
Wouldn't it be lovely?
Only interrupted by
the cat-calls of
taxis, metro, trains flying overhead.

Which way is the right way?

Row houses rise on either side
a testament to the time
when this broken down
trains car of a town
was a Pullman City.

Degrading into bricks and mortar,
rusting to the point of
being obsolete.

For a good time
call me
old-fashioned.
This is my former glory,
made into a city.

It's time to decommission.

This is what every show becomes
when the lights fade
and the curtain falls.
When sunlight turns to shadow.

I expect less.

Be mindful of the gap between
the stapler and tape dispenser.
That my boy,
is where evil breeds hate.

Bacteria waiting for the right moment.
A sickly blitzkrieg.

We are alive,
here in the office,
Looking for the next paid holiday.
One that will come too soon.

Forgive me for rambling,
it is what I do best.
Alone in my thoughts
and feeling like I am back home.
The road to ruin.

How can I help you today?
Oh,
I can't really do anything for you.
I do not care.

I respectfully request that you stop.
This poem will ruin your day.
I would feel bad.

Let's forget this ever happened and
get back to what we do best.
Staring into space and hoping it reverses.

He said,
She said,
madness.
The cup is filled to the brim.
It is spreading,
not like a plague.
Please accept this illness as a sign of our good will.
Things will get darker before they
explode.
There is a reason for everything.
The plan has been laid out for
the world to mend.
He said that she said
pick the apple.
The voices become a roar,
echoing through the frontal lobe.
Where does the madness begin?
It begins with us.
It ends with us.
We are the complication.
We are the unbalanced equation.
He she,
she said,
madness.

I am
eternally
listening to
a symphony of
coffee pots,
gossip,
and cheap ***.

A red coffee cup
chipped,
sits on my desk,
half full.

Where is this going?

I can be filthy.
However,
I find it to be cheap,
a play.
Oh, sure,
use another idiotic
graphic in your
mess of a poem.

Where is this going?

I lean forward and
WHAM!
A poem.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
You listen.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
You stop listening.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
It fades to black.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
I don't know how to do this anymore.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
This stops making sense.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
This poem forgets it's path.

I lean forward and
WHAM!
Unfounded anxiety.

I lean forward and
catch myself.
For it is in darkness that
we truly appreciate the darkness.

There are worse things
than those that go
bump
in the night.
When the stars are too afraid to
come out from behind their cloud captors.
That is when the demons rise.
Slithering around your feet,
keeping everyone bolted to
their barstool.
Don't worry,
this will only take a minute.
An instant transformation.
Rise my monsters!
Rise!
Poison will be your undoing
and help you reach
a true form.
This is pure.
There are no limitations.
Be afraid of these ghouls.
They whisper and float
through the stale smell of
paradise.
They sit in neon lights,
waiting for the next round.
Rattling chains
as heavy as reality,
the fire burns down.
It gives birth to a new monster.
Just one more.
The world can stop spinning,
for one more.
The transformation is taking hold, it is almost complete.
Blind stares into mirrored walls,
watching as the everything goes black.
No recollection of
your birth.
Rise my monsters,
rise.

Run,
Run,
as fast as you can.
Greed is closing in.
Dragging you down the
rabbit's hole.
However,
there is no vacancy here.
No quarter will be given to your kind.
You have
forgotten your senses,
given into
worldly pleasures.
There is a special place in this world
for people like you.
Counting coins until
the gold becomes flesh.
Trading life for life.
This system has broken you.
The beast is off the chain,
attacking at random.
Showing no remorse for it's actions.
Why should it?
It has done nothing wrong.
You fed the beast,
gave it a home.
Now it is time to pay the piper,
with interest.
You have woven this tale,
and you alone must draft it's ending.
It is coming undone.
It was foolish to think there would be no repercussions.
Only,
nothing can save you.
It is simple really.
The ending will show your true nature.
Make you want to believe again,
that this is a worthwhile cause.
Try to escape from Neverland.
Oh yes,
run,
run,
as fast as you can.

I had a dream last night.
Yes, another of those poems.
Fooled you.
Unoriginal hack of a poet.
well,
deal with it.
Just listen.

Where was I?

The dream...
It started out well enough.
I was in an unfamiliar place,
walking down a city street.

I'm over this dream.
It's all the same.
Same experiences.
Same dreams.

Fast forward.

I woke up at 1:32 AM.
Yes, I always remember the exact times.
Thirsty as hell, I drained my orange juice.
Warm orange juice tastes like ****.
It didn't satisfy this craving.
It had to be the teriyaki chicken...
I wouldn't be able to sleep.

Fell back asleep.

2:34 AM, still
thirsty.
Drained two glass of what tasted like Fruit Punch.

Fell back asleep.

6:35 AM alarm starts going off.
Time to go about the day.
Remember what yesterday was,
what tomorrow could have been.

Maybe I will dream tonight.
Maybe,
It will be blank.
Wouldn't be the first time it happened.

Oh,
how emotional.

If you're wondering
the street turned into green fields,
wet with morning,
smelling of fresh life.
I ran by ___.

You make up the rest.
Not even my dreams are original.

Life is rough
when you make it.

I’m sporadically pinging
bouncing off mental walls.
Take a deep breath
In and out.
Doesn’t help at all.
My mind is racing
100,000 miles a minute.
Looking at street lights
out library windows,
burning and bursting with
anxiety.
This structure is crumbling into
anarchy of the mind.
It’s about **** time.
My mind forgets
about reality
and remembers
the
worst
possible
scenarios.
The world stands still.
Figuratively,
of course the world is still spinning on its axis.
I can feel it in my bones.
Constantly in motion.
The law of conservation of energy states,
“That energy can be neither created nor destroyed.”
Therefore, it must change forms.
The mind is a powerful tool.
A powerful weapon
against oneself.
There is no way of stopping
what is to come.
The paths get wider and I stay the same.
It’s all in my head.
Nothing is changing.
Everything is the same.
In a world full of atoms
we are all in this
til the end.

The cracks in the sidewalk are forming a pattern.
Keeping away those foreign to this land.
If you don't belong here,
don't be long here.

It is funny how the snow falls
over the trash and bricks.
A blanket of white that hides the problems.
The deafening sound of sorrow.

A retirement home retired.
Covered in graffiti and ****.
This talking must stop.
The sky is growing darker and the nights
they are below freezing.

Driving down alleyways and watching the apocalypse prequel.
Slam!
The car stops, not wanting to move.
The reverse went out long ago.
Everything that had promise
is broken.
Shattered glass reflecting hope back into the sun.

Kneeling in the hallway,
in front of the Men's bathroom.
I hope no one comes out as I pray.
Please,
do not let my sins catch up with me.
Not now.
Never.
I can hear the church bells
ringing in my ears.
The path is laid out.
My choice is to have three crucifixes on my night stand,
use my finger to paint them in the soot on my car.
This will be my protection.